


Sorrow of the Siren

by Hopeless--Geek (wuzzy90), Mystrana



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Background clint/nat - Freeform, Bittersweet Ending, Horror, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Skinny!Steve, Supernatural Elements, Top Bucky, birth of the muse, collegeAU, explicit content, man eating sirens, mention of Peggy/Steve, mention of a main character dying from old age, no actual man eating depicted, siren!Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-05 04:25:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11005938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wuzzy90/pseuds/Hopeless--Geek, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mystrana/pseuds/Mystrana
Summary: Professor Fury said paint something that moves you, so Steve Rogers headed to the beach he spent his childhood summers at for inspiration. Except that beach has been closed for years due to a series of mysterious disappearances. Steve just wants to paint. He doesn’t give a whit about mysterious disappearances.He should.When the siren shows up that night, dark hair and glowing aquamarine eyes, Steve is powerless to resist his deadly lure…





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [2017 Captain America RBB ](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/CAP_RBB_2017)
> 
> Art by [ hopeless--geek](http://hopeless--geek.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Story by [ Mystrana ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mystrana/pseuds/Mystrana)
> 
> Many thanks to our lovely beta reader [ Chicklette! ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/chicklette/pseuds/chicklette)
> 
>    
> I can't say enough wonderful things about this experience, from the amazing artists and writers, to the encouraging slack, and the mods who dedicated countless hours to make it look easy. Thank you all! ~Mystrana 

 

 

 

 

**Prologue**

“The myth of the siren does not permeate society as thoroughly as that of the vampire, despite the connotations of deadly sexuality in both,” the professor lectured on as Steve Rogers sketched little waves and rocks on the side of his notes in the spirit of the topic. “Said to have lured sailors to their death with their beauty and song, it was later suggested that they might have been nothing more than manatees seen from a distance.” She paused when she saw a hand go up. “Yes, go ahead.”

“I’d argue that the finality of the siren’s death is what’s holding them back from popularity,” offered a classmate. Steve turned to look who was speaking - the red hair and eye roll belonged to Natasha Romanoff, someone he recognized from a few of his other courses. She held back a sigh as she continued, “it’s ‘romantic’ that a vampire can drain almost all of your blood, but leave you alive - or turn you into one. When a siren kills you, you’re dead. There’s no romance.”

“It’s an interesting idea,” the professor agreed. “You might want to consider that as a possibility for your midterm paper.” She looked around the room. “And I don’t want to receive fifty papers on that topic, so don’t think that Ms. Romanoff has done all of your topic work for you.”

Natasha went back to typing on her laptop, and Steve realized it was the first time he had heard her talk in class.

~~

“Mid terms, or as I like to call it, a chance to prove you’ve been paying attention to at least part of class.” Professor Fury taught ART325 - Painting, and, despite his rough demeanor, took great pride in his ability to guide students through the various techniques. “I want something that speaks to you. If you’re going to paint me a rock, paint the most goddamned interesting rock and do it in a way that makes me want to know what’s going on with it. Any questions?”

There were a few questions and then the class broke into small groups for discussing last week’s project. Steve sat next to his friend Clint, a tall blond with a penchant for purple shirts as the other three members of their group turned their chairs around to circle around one of the long rectangular desks in the classroom.

Near the end of class, the group’s conversation turned to ideas about the mid-term painting.

“I’ll probably head to my parent’s farm for the weekend,” Clint mused, leaning back in his chair. “Bound to be something interesting going on there.”

“It’s just too broad of a prompt,” another student from the group complained. “Plenty of things speak to me.”

“Like ghosts?” Steve asked, his face perfectly serious except for the humor dancing behind his eyes. “Do you see dead people?”

The other student, oblivious to the teasing statement, sighed and looked at Steve as though he had three eyes. “No, of course not!” She crossed her arms, shaking her head.

Steve nodded in fake earnest. Clint stifled a laugh and then asked, “What about you, Steve? Got any ideas?”

“Yeah,” Steve replied, fiddling with his pencil. He had been sketching a reef throughout the last hour, fish swimming between the monochromatic corals. He had been about to sketch the shadow of a larger creature on the outskirts of the image. “Honestly, I’ve been thinking about going to the old state park site. Something about the water has been calling to me lately.”

The classmate who didn’t speak to ghosts gasped. “Are you crazy? There’s a reason they closed that beach. Why not just go to the new state park? There’s water there too, you know.”

Clint appeared to fight between several things before he said, “She’s not wrong, Steve. Far too many people disappeared there for it to be poor swimmers alone. You know that. They checked the tide patterns and everything.”

Steve raised an eyebrow, surprised to hear even steadfast Clint speaking as though Steve was making a very bad decision. It was just a beach, after all. He had played in the sand at that beach for years as a kid, learned how to swim in the waves. And if people disappeared in the water in more recent years, then all he had to do was not go in the water.

Clint sighed as he saw the glint in Steve’s eyes and shrugged. “Suppose if you’re too stubborn to back down, I’d recommend a day trip and getting out of there before dusk.”

“I’m not planning on swimming,” Steve said. “I’m planning on painting. I won’t even go wading. It’s going to be fine.”

 

 

 

**1**

The gravel crunched and then fell silent under the tires of Steve’s red jeep as he parked on a grassy spot near a long stretch of the beach. The midday sun had just left its peak and the wind was soft, gently rushing among tall grass between the car and the sand.

Steve opened the door and hopped out of the vehicle, comfortable in his white t-shirt and worn soft jeans. He could hear the cicadas buzzing, blending with the small waves lapping up at the shore some twenty-five feet away. In a word, it was perfect. Perfectly secluded and just what he needed to inspire his mid term project.

Opening the door to the backseat, Steve grabbed his backpack filled with art supplies, slung a collapsible stool and easel over his shoulder, and started towards the water. There was no path through the grass, just a handmade sign stuck haphazardly in the ground, decorated with a blunt cartoon skull-and-crossbones and a request to “Keep Away – This Area Haunted.”

Steve rolled his eyes as he brushed past the sign, but the conversation from class kept playing through his mind, the way his classmates seemed so concerned about a stretch of sand. He did believe that all legends came from some small kernel of truth, but that worked to provoke his curiosity. He made his way from the grass to the sand and took it all in, hoping to draw from the eerie mythos of the area.

He walked to the water’s edge and began following the shore for a few minutes. The ocean looked just the same as it did down at the new state park site. Shimmering blue, reaching as far as the eye could see, the waves rhythmically rising and falling, leaving grasping foam tendrils in their wake. The sand was more small rocks than the smooth white sand at some beaches, but Steve didn’t mind.

The beach was rather overgrown with waving sandflowers and milkweed, having been closed to public use for three years now, and Steve began eyeing the area with a thought towards the composition of his project. He walked for several more minutes to find what he was looking for, and once he found the breathtaking view he was hoping for, he set up his stool and easel with a practiced hand and sat, looking out towards the water.

Out came the sketchbook and, after a few fast thumbnails, he settled into a slow, thoughtful pace, spending the next few hours loving the way each brushstroke fell, the way the colors began to blend together. The sun warmed his back and shoulders as he worked and the scent of honeysuckle drifted over from behind him, where it grew tangled among the willows.

Every so often, the water would splash with the jumping of a fish, but after some time, Steve couldn’t help but notice that the fish weren’t very active. Which didn’t quite make sense – wouldn’t the fish prefer the quieter areas away from the fishermen who frequented the new state park? The thought had Steve shifting in his seat, glancing around at the dunes and the waves, but when he saw nothing, he brushed it off, returning his focus to his project.

His oceanscape was beautiful. He was working on the focal point now, a large rock just out in the distance of the water. The sun had danced off the rock all afternoon, showcasing its colorful reds and earthy oranges and Steve worked diligently, layering colors to capture that beauty.

Another hour passed and all at once, he paused and stood in a swift movement, taking a moment to stretch his arms up towards the sky where the sun hung low among a few scant clouds. He yawned. The warm sun, the ceaseless cicadas, and the ever-whispering waves wove an enticing lullaby, and after a good, long stretch, he couldn’t help but to sit back down on the sand and rest his head back on his canvas stool and close his eyes, just for a moment.

The moment turned to a minute and the minute turned to many and when Steve Rogers opened his eyes again, the sun had set and darkness had descended along the beach, the waves no longer a pleasant sound but rather ominous in their crashing, the water an angry, dark gray.

Steve grabbed his backpack and felt around for two long moments before pulling out a small flashlight. He flipped the little beam of light on and, with an urgency he didn’t want to admit, he began shoving his art supplies back into the pack, and he fumbled with the stool as he tried to fold it back up.

The temperature had dropped several degrees and his skin pin pricked each time the wind came rushing over the water. Steve reached to grab his painting and turned to leave when he realized the cicadas had gone silent and the wind had stopped blowing. There, in the distance, was an eerie yellow-orange light streaming from beyond the sandbar, beaming up towards the rising moon.

Steve’s breath caught in his throat. The light was unlike anything he had seen before, pulsing gently and vibrating with a musical lilt in the silence of the moment. Every rational bit of his brain told him to turn and run to the car – now! – but his body had other plans. His backpack, stool, and flashlight thudded to the ground as his feet started towards the water’s edge.

He realized his sandals were no where near him, and the rocky sand was rough and cool against his feet, shifting underneath with every step.

_Stop this, turn around, stop –_

The first cold wave hit him low, at the ankles, drenching the hem of his jeans, a shocking dip in temperature. He took another step forward.

_Steve. What are you doing?! – you need to –_

Another step. Even as his mind frantically shouted, his eyes remained fixed forward on that light, that brilliant beam that soothed and shushed, that promised a respite from the cold water, that promised _more_ if only he could reach it. 

Another wave hit, above the knee, and Steve shivered, the sensation starting in his spine at the neck and moving down violently, the chill lodging firmly inside.

_If I can just make it –_

Steve shook his head, trying and failing to look anywhere else, to focus on the water, to look back to the shore. But he walked forward, the beam of light enveloping his vision –

_I need to –_

Another step. Another wave. His jeans were heavy with water, and a wave crashed up against his chest, tearing his breath out of his lungs. It was all he could do to keep his eyes open as he flinched.

Another wave, a spray of cold salt water on his face and he automatically rubbed at his stinging eyes, trying to find focus as he struggled to catch his breath.  

Another step, and the water started threatening to drag him under. His thoughts oscillated wildly between frantic fear and the all-encompassing calmness of the light that was nearly in front of him and then he stumbled, tripping over a large rock half-buried in the seabed, everything going dark as he fell, hitting the water. He shouted out in surprise, water rushing into his nose and mouth and settling like a blanket over his face –

Something caught him by the waist and hoisted him up, pushing him back over the surface of the water. Steve choked and gagged, unable to stop clawing at the air and a pair of thick, muscular arms wrapped around him, holding him so very still and immobile.

Steve found himself staring into two vibrant, aquamarine eyes on a face that was clearly inhuman but unsettlingly close. The words “it’s a siren” came to mind, not that he could have said a single word if he wanted to. He could barely stop shivering. But one thought was clear: _This is where I am going to die._

And – _he’s gorgeous._

The waves broke on the siren’s back and he smiled, baring perfectly straight, bone white teeth and shining, sharp incisors. His arms wrapped around Steve’s back, making it impossible for Steve to move even an inch, and Steve fought the urge to retch again. It became all the much harder to hold back the rising bile when he realized he wasn’t just feeling the cold water around him. He felt the sharp point of a dagger pressed against his back.

Time seemed to stand still for that moment, and Steve stared as fear mingled with the electrical jolt of being pressed up against the siren’s bare, strong chest. Steve realized they had floated the last few yards to the bright light and as it enveloped them with a fleeting moment of warmth, the siren smiled again, his grin curled up at the ends and showing all his teeth as he kept his grip tight and pulled Steve under the water.

Steve struggled, but couldn’t move in any direction, couldn’t slide up or down, couldn’t even kick his feet more than a few inches. He was no match for the creature cutting him off from his very necessary supply of oxygen, but wasn’t about to die without trying.

Except –

Steve opened his eyes under the water and looked at the creature again, marveling at the way the light emanating from the ground illuminated silvery green scales and shone golden through the siren’s long brown hair. His brain was already crying for oxygen, but it was a fuzzy, distant thought – someone else’s thought. Someone else was concerned with breathing. Steve was concerned with staring at the beautiful creature pressed against him.

The sides of his vision were fading, blackness creeping into his periphery, but still Steve looked, even as he stopped struggling, even as he relaxed into the hold, as temperature seemed to ease into a meaningless concept and all that mattered was –

_Air…_

The blade still pressed against his back, even as all of the tension in Steve’s muscles dissipated. Without ever taking his eyes off Steve’s, the siren began to move his arm, the point of his dagger moving slowly from neck to hip, just deep enough to cut through the soaking wet shirt and send a new set of shivers down Steve’s spine. He fought the urge to spasm, trying to maintain some sort of urgency to live, but everything was so soft and beautiful and why wouldn’t he want to spend his last moments in this embrace?

_Please…_

The siren slid Steve’s slit shirt off his arms, and Steve saw the dagger for the first time, an elaborately carved silver handle supporting a crystalline blade glowing with soft golden pulses that matched the light shining into the sky. Almost as mesmerizing as those eyes.

But Steve couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer as blackness threatened his whole field of vision. Tears ran down his face, intermixed with the salt water all around them and he sighed as he leaned his head against the siren’s chest, feeling a peace and warmth. He wanted to remember every inch of skin pressed against him, he swore he could feel soft lips against his, and they were so smooth, gliding over his lips. His eyes fluttered once more and his last thought lingered just one moment before everything went black –

_Is that all_ my _blood in the water?_

_The summer he turned nine, Steve Rogers spent almost every day at the beach, begging his mother to take him whenever she wasn’t working a shift at the hospital. She would slather him with sunblock and then lay out a towel and read under a beach umbrella while Steve played on the shore for hours._

_Some days he would build sandcastles, elaborate creations made with his limited collection of buckets. He would let the warm, wet sand drip through his fingers to form twisting towers and press bits of shells, twigs and bird feathers into the side of the sand for decoration._

_He walked along the shore, searching for shells and sometimes standing still as the waves washed over his feet, the water rushing back to the ocean and taking the sand from beneath his toes, his feet sinking just a little deeper with each wave until he had to lift them back up._

_When he had a good handful of shells, he turned to head back towards his sandcastle. The sun shimmered off of the water and he looked out at the endless horizon. He loved the way the water seemed to blend into the sky. It made him feel small but happy, something his nine-year-old vocabulary couldn’t quite articulate._

_Here and there a fish jumped, its scales flashing in the sun before disappearing under the waves. And then something bigger moved on the waves._

_Steve blinked. He tilted his head, watching the water. It looked like a person sitting on a rock out in the distance, except he swore he saw small fins and green scales. He tapped his face. Perhaps he was dreaming. When he looked again, he didn’t see anything. And when he told his mom about it a few minutes later, she chided him for staying out in the sun for too long without any water._

_Still, he couldn’t help but to glance back out at the water as they left that day. He saw nothing, and by the end of the summer, he had forgotten the isolated incident._

The sun had just risen over the horizon when Steve Rogers opened his eyes. He woke with a start, rolling onto his side and jumping to his feet as he scanned the sand around him. The very first thing he noticed was a small fire a few feet away, with his pants propped up on sticks nearby to dry. He was nearly naked save for his blue boxer briefs and he was covered in sand. The air was warm with the fire and, above all, he was alive.

There were no footprints in the sand, nothing to suggest someone else had been there, but Steve knew better. The fire was lined with a circle of large rocks and just starting to burn out. He turned towards the water, staring hard. The water looked exactly as it had yesterday – endlessly moving,  deep blue, and not a sign of the powerful siren that had wrapped him in such a deadly, lovely embrace.

“How am I still alive?” he wondered aloud, even as he started to consider that perhaps he had fallen asleep and had a very vivid nightmare. It wouldn’t have been the first time his overactive imagination had supplied him with terrifying images while he slept, especially given what everyone had said about the area the day before.

Off to the side was his folded-up stool and his easel with his painting neatly displayed. None of the items appeared to have been dropped in a moment of fumbling haste last night like he remembered. Clearly, he had fallen asleep by the ocean and had the nightmare of his lifetime. 

He vaguely remembered his shirt being ripped or torn or, wait, no. It was cut. Instinctively, Steve ran his hand down part of his back, feeling for any injury. He felt a lot of sand, the rocky grains scratching at his back, but nothing felt particularly sore in a way that sleeping for several hours in the sand wouldn’t account for. A dream. He also didn’t see his shirt anywhere. So – not dreaming.

Steve pulled his pants back on - the shirt was replaceable, but finding a 29-inch inseam was a pain these days, and he turned back towards the water, looking far into the distance, as if he expected to see the creature, the _siren_ , sitting on the rocks, combing his hair or playing a lyre. He saw nothing out of the ordinary, except that the water seemed rather still, as though all the fish in the area had swam away. The memory of the bloody water floating around him flashed in his mind and pricked the hair on the back of his neck again.

He had to get out of there. Right?

“Right,” he muttered to himself, wishing he had a rake for the coals of the fire. He settled instead for grabbing his water bottle from his backpack and dousing the site well, before grabbing up everything and going for his painting. 

Only when he was right in front of the art did he notice the small, subtle change – the rock he had painted so fastidiously the day before was smudged and sparkled in the rising sunlight with a golden green sheen that spoke of scales and fins. Steve stopped, looking around again. There was no way he had been dreaming.

Now that the sun was out, he wanted to know what had happened and why. As he made his way back slowly along the shore, the sand shifting under his feet, Steve thought about staying and waiting for nightfall again. As if he could somehow communicate with a creature who seemed to have a straightforward purpose that involved him being a lot less alive. As if he could slip through death’s fingers again.

His stomach rumbled, reminding him his last meal was almost a day ago, and, with a sigh, he reached his parked jeep, tossed his stuff in the back and jumped into the front. He took one last long look back at the water before he shifted into gear, easing back onto the narrow road and heading home.

The siren, floating in the shadow of a large rock in the water, watched as Steve left, crossing his arms and pursing his lips thoughtfully. It wasn’t like him to play catch and release with his prey, though he had little doubt the human would be back before too long.

A small fish swam nearby, making the mistake of swimming within arm’s reach of the creature, who snatched the fish out of the water and ate it in one smooth motion.

No, it just wasn’t the same. He would do well to remember that the next time he had the human in his reach.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

****  


Home was a studio apartment about forty minutes away from the beach, chosen for the reasonable price and good proximity to campus. Two days had passed and Steve was in the process of putting his bag together for his classes. He paused briefly to grab a glass of water from the kitchenette and refilled his water bottle before heading out. He hoped he wasn’t coming down with a cold - no matter how much water he seemed to drink that morning, he still felt so thirsty.

His thirst was temporarily pushed to the side when he got to his art class, eager to share his painting and to see what his classmates had done as well.

“Hey, look who’s still alive,” Clint greeted him as he entered the room. “Must not have gone, then.”

Steve couldn’t hold back a grin. “Oh, hey Clint,” he replied, nonchalantly. “I went.” He paused, debating his next words carefully. “I even spent the night to get the full experience.”

A couple of students next to them looked on in surprise but said nothing. 

“Look who’s a liar, then,” Clint said without malice as he sat down at the nearby desk. “The last two people to stay the night there disappeared. Gone.”

“Why do you have to be so morbid?” Natasha asked Clint as she wrinkled her nose at them. Steve remembered from introductions earlier in the semester that she was from out of state, so she must not have been as familiar with the local legends. “It’s just a beach. Sand, saltwater, that sort of thing, right?”

“Right. Thanks, Natasha,” Steve said, though Clint’s words hadn’t bothered him. It was the way the two of them interacted through all of their classes together. He took a sip from his water bottle. “It was an interesting night, but to be honest, I was asleep most of the the time.”

Clint raised an eyebrow. “Most of the time isn’t all of the time. Care to share with the class?”

Steve ignored the question and hoisted his painting in front of his body, to put it in Clint’s line of vision. “What do you see here?” he asked. “Be honest.”

Clint looked over at the other students who crowded around to see, and then looked back at the painting, tapping a finger on his chin and giving the painting an exaggerated once-over. “I see a decent oceanscape. The technique is excellent for the sand and greenery, really feels like I’m right there, but the rock in the middle is a bit - sloppy. I’d give it a B.”

“Glad you’re not making the final decision.” Steve pushed the painting forward, just a bit closer to Clint, trying to angle the golden-green glimmer into the lights, to make it shine brighter, so that no one could miss it. “But out of curiosity, what would you say is wrong exactly with the rock?” 

“It’s not as detailed as everything else,” Clint replied, looking at the painting again, studying each part in turn. “The painting is very good, if we’re being honest here, and the rock is very flat. Professor Fury’s gonna be disappointed in his star student.”

Steve looked at the painting again. He still saw the green shimmering glow, and perhaps part of his sanity. “Thank you Clint,” he said, making his way around the desk to his seat, sitting down, and sipping at his water.

“Anytime, pal.”

Natasha stared at the painting a moment longer and then she and another student went to their seats while a few of the other classmates hovered to ask him more detailed questions. Steve felt irritation creeping up, and was thankful when Professor Fury came in to start the class. However, within the first half hour of lecture, Steve had drained his water bottle, and his throat felt dry and scratchy. He tried to quietly clear his throat, but that brought on a coughing fit that would not stop.

_ Great, _ thought Steve, as he got up to excuse himself to take his barking coughs out to the hallway and refill his water.  _ I’m going crazy, and I’m getting sick. _

He took a long drink from the fountain, too, but couldn’t quite chase away that itch at the back of his throat. He headed back to class, sitting down for the lecture and finishing the period with no water left in his water bottle and a sand-dry mouth. When class was dismissed, he practically bolted out of his seat in his haste to leave.

“Ouch!” 

Steve ran head first into Natasha. The tall redhead looked down at him, her expression unreadable.

“Sorry,” he muttered, trying to sidestep past her to keep moving. 

Natasha turned and fell in line with Steve, walking down the hallway with him though she had been going the other direction. “It’s fine. You’re preoccupied.”

“Just coming down with something and want to get home,” he said, unable to bring himself to go past the water fountain. He stopped and took a drink of water, the cool liquid washing away the itch for just a moment before it returned in full force. He cleared his throat and coughed while filling up his water bottle.

She waited for him. “Maybe you’re seeing things,” she said quietly, pinning him with her ice blue eyes. “Like, perhaps, a dark green glimmer on a rock that you didn’t add yourself.That no one else seems to see.”

He met her gaze, saying nothing and trying to hide his surprise at her words.

“I see it too,” she confirmed. “And maybe, you’re feeling like you’re drying out from the inside. Can’t quite quench your thirst.”

“What is my cold to you?” Steve asked, finally, but he shivered ever so slightly. Natasha’s tone was deadly serious and spoke of much more than the common cold.

“Maybe it’s a cold. But maybe it’s not just a rhinovirus,” she replied. She gestured to the exit doors, away from the rush of students making their way through. “Do you have a minute to chat?”

~~

Five minutes later, they were sitting down at a small table in the on-campus coffee shop. There was a Starbucks some twenty feet down the road, so they had the whole place to themselves. A solitary employee was listening to loud music in the back, ignoring them once they picked up their coffees.

“I’m not normally so rude,” Steve said as he stirred his coffee, watching the splash of cream swirl down in the dark liquid, “but I’m feeling a little bit of urgency today. So - why did you want to talk?”

“Well,” Natasha said, dropping her voice lower, a rasp so quiet Steve had to lean in until they were nearly touching heads. He could smell her shampoo, mint and roses. “Tell me what happened? And when?”

“Three nights ago,” Steve whispered with a dry tongue, wondering when she was going to start laughing and tell him he was insane and that of course she didn’t see what he saw on his painting. She didn’t. She just looked at him, her expression unreadable, so he continued. “There was a column of light in the ocean. I was drawn to it like - I guess that’s what a moth feels like? I couldn’t stop moving if I wanted to. And he was waiting in the water. He held me so tightly that I could hardly breathe. He cut my shirt and I passed out. I think. It’s incredibly fuzzy once I went underwater.” 

Steve didn’t bother to speak out loud how gorgeous the siren had been, how his skin had felt so soft and how he would have loved to run his hands down the siren’s bare chest, farther down until his hands slid onto -

“Steve.” Natasha’s voice brought him back to the present and he took a long drink from his water bottle while he waited for his coffee to cool. “I know what you’re thinking about. Of course he’s gorgeous. That’s how this works. He marked you.”

Steve shook his head. “Marked.” The phrase sounded ridiculous rolling off his tongue and yet, he appreciated the idea that perhaps he wasn’t completely insane. “Well, what do I do, then?” 

Natasha pursed her lips. “The thirst is only the beginning. The longer you stay away, the worse it get.” She looked up towards the ceiling for a moment and with a sigh, met Steve’s eyes again. “You have to kill him to remove the mark.”

That got a short bark of laughter, which begat a fit of coughs and another long drink. “I don’t know if you’ve taken the time to notice, but I’m about 130 pounds soaking wet and he was easily twice my size. All lean muscle, too.”  _ Which, in any other case, wouldn’t be a bad thing at all. _ Steve frowned at the thought even as his body rushed blood down from his brain to lower, less helpful areas.

“Look,” Natasha said after a sip of coffee. “It’s not strictly size or strength. Everything I’ve been able to find suggests that they kill within minutes of capturing their prey. So he hesitated. So you use that to your advantage.” She paused, obviously weighing her next words before continuing in a low voice that had Steve on the edge of his chair straining to hear. But her words were clear. “It’s what I had to do.”

Steve let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. 

“I never thought I would meet another one,” she said after a moment. “There’s not many of them. It’s impossible to find much, but I’ve been trying to learn all I can about sirens.” It was the first time Natasha had spoken the word out loud and it hung in the air. “It’s all mixed up with legends and myths, ‘eyewitness’ accounts from people who clearly have never seen one.” She stopped talking, and bit her lip, and the silence between them swelled into something palpable. 

“Natasha,” Steve said finally. “You must have been young.”

She looked at her coffee and then met Steve’s eyes. “I was 16. I was old enough. Hate the beach now though.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve replied. He ran a hand through his hair. 

“It is what it is.” Natasha shrugged with a little sigh, just the tiniest bit of a breath and she gave Steve the hint of a smile. “I’m always going forward, and hopefully you’ll be able to as well.” Another beat, and the smile faded, replaced by something sterner and sadder. “You should go tonight.”

Steve flinched, but he knew she was right. His throat itched, dry and scratchy, and he thought about asking Natasha to come with him. He thought about Clint, wondered if his friend would even buy the story, let alone help. It was rare that he let his size get the better of him, but at that moment, sitting in the middle of the almost empty coffee shop, the tension in the room strung bow-tight, he felt impossibly tiny. He knew the feeling of those muscular arms around him and he knew how any struggle would end. 

“I’m sorry,” Natasha responded to the unspoken question. “I can’t go with you. He won’t show up if he even suspects someone else is around. And you’re just going to keep feeling worse. He can wait. You can’t.” The ice blue of her eyes had warmed, and he believed she was genuinely sorry. “For what it’s worth, Steve, I wish I had gotten to know you better. I thought I had all year.”

Steve drained the rest of his water bottle and nodded in agreement. “If I come out on the other side alive, I’d love to chat again. Under better circumstances.”

“Sounds like a plan.” She met his eyes, and Steve could see she wasn’t convinced he’d be back.

They talked for awhile longer. Natasha explained everything she felt when she had been marked, how she had seen her feet start to wither from the toes the longer she stayed away from the area, and how she was certain the effect would have continued upward. She refused to show him her feet, saying maybe,  _ maybe, _ if he came back.

They made a plan that ultimately boiled down to distracting the siren long enough to somehow disarm him and use that dagger to finish the job, and Steve finished his last sip of coffee before he stood up, using the table to keep him stable on his feet. A deep breath, a wave, and then he was on his way. 

~~

Steve replayed their conversation as he drove down the road towards the old state park site. Forty minutes was both too short and too long. His mind raced - what if the siren simply killed him the moment he stepped foot on the beach? Natasha seemed to think the fact that he had gotten away once meant there would be a chance, but even if there was - how long would it be? Would he have seconds to react? Minutes?

And all it would take was one wrong move. 

The sun hung low in the sky, as though it was eager for night to fall, and the cool autumn wind whispered through the open windows of the jeep. 

Steve swore that he could feel his feet starting to tingle, and hoped he was imaging the sensation. He thought about simply staying away, and seeing what happened. But that ever-present, overwhelming thirst set off alarm bells. One way or another, Steve Rogers was marked for death.

“I regret this painting,” he said out loud. It was not worth any of this. And yet - he still couldn’t help but remember the feel of the siren’s smooth chest, the soft heat that emanated from him, and that peace and comfort he had never felt before in his life. That he thought he would never feel.

The gravel crunched under the tires of his jeep as he guided the vehicle off of the road and into the space he had parked just those short days ago. He sat still, looking at the grass between the car and the beach. The grass waved without sound in the darkening quiet of the night, and the water washed up and back in waves that seemed to mutter warnings. There was that handmade sign, now ominous in its warning. Darkness began to settle over the far reaches of the water, and the cicadas had never started droning.

Steve opened the door with a hand that shook more than he would have liked, wondering where he would first see the siren. Did they come on land? He knew the creature could be above the water, but could he be on the shore? He must have, to make that fire. 

He jumped out of the vehicle, wearing just a pair of blue swim trunks. He wished it was full body armor, but had a feeling that would be a disadvantage if and when it got wet. With a quick prayer to any deity that might be listening, he walked through the grass towards the beach.


	3. Chapter 3

 

**3**

The sand crunched cold underneath his feet, but already Steve could feel his thirst lifting, the tickle in his throat dissipating. That in itself was a relief and sent chills down his spine all at once. His siren was clearly somewhere nearby.

Each step he made was slow and measured, the march of a man who knew there was no other option, no other possible outcome. Sure he could turn and run, but what good would it do? He got to within a foot of the shore, his heart racing in time to the crashing waves and his eyes scanning the horizon with a calmness that belied his quick breaths.

The light from the previous night wasn’t there. That much was obvious. And in the darkening evening, he wished he had brought a flashlight to shine on the shore. _It didn’t really help me the other night, did it?_

The loud splash made him jump nearly a foot in the air, putting his arms up instinctively and bringing his center of gravity closer to the ground. Steve knew what he would see when he looked, and there, sitting on the rock, lit by a golden glow, was the siren.

God but he was just as gorgeous as Steve remembered. From the dark brown waves of hair to the strong chest to thighs that looked like he could move mountains, his skin glistening with golden-green scales and his eyes focused on Steve with a hunger that knocked the air out of Steve’s lungs.

The siren waited. It felt as though the earth revolved around the two of them as they stared, Steve standing at the edge of the sand and the siren sitting on the rock, his hands resting on his thighs, the wind blowing through his hair and the waves crashing around.

Steve took the first step into the water. His heart pounded out of his chest, distracting from the cold seaspray. His legs fell into autopilot, muscle memory built from the last time he was in these waters, and it was all he could do to avoid panicking.

Each step covered more ground than he thought possible, brought the siren into closer focus faster. The air itself radiated peace, but for some reason, Steve couldn’t quite relax into the moment as he had before, and he wished he could.

Chest deep in the water, just five feet away from the rock and the waves threatening to wash over his face, Steve watched the siren begin to move, drawing himself up to his full height and towering threateningly. Steve felt the enormity of the ocean around him as he gazed up. He saw the creature was completely naked, looked away out of instinct and then lifted his eyes up, focusing on the siren’s face.

The siren spoke, a deep, musical voice that commanded attention: “So nice of you to return.”

Overwhelmed, Steve closed his eyes for a moment when he heard that voice. It brought images of stormy seas and whirlpools of water. He opened them immediately, berating himself for letting down his guard. The siren, to his immense relief, had not moved closer. “I - I don’t think I had a choice,” Steve said, painfully aware of the singular quality of his voice.

His response had the siren grinning, his bright eyes focused on Steve, and Steve shuddered, though whether from fear or something else he could not say. The siren reached with one arm outstretched. “Come on then,” he said, his eyes locked onto Steve’s, making Steve feel every ounce the helpless prey. “All the way this time.”

Before Steve could even consider the siren’s connotation, his feet began moving beneath him, an impulse so intense that Steve’s thoughts blurred around the edges as all of his blood rushed to his legs. He forced himself to start a steadying breath, but the distance between them was closing too rapidly, and he couldn’t quite catch his breath and then the siren was reaching down and pulling him out of the water and the two of them stood face to face, mere inches between them.

The air around them should have been cold, but Steve didn’t feel the breeze. He couldn’t hide his racing heartbeat. He stood as defiantly as he could, hands on his hips and feet planted on the slick rock.

This made the siren laugh and Steve wanted to wrap himself in the sound. “Do you think I am going to hurt you?” he asked, his eyes flashing and his grin inviting. Steve watched every movement, wanted to memorize every line of the siren’s face.

“I don’t think I can risk it.” Steve tried to sound serious, but he was lost in the siren’s eyes and he knew that the creature knew it. The siren could have commanded him to jump in the water and Steve would have complied as though his life depended on it.

Steve followed the rise and fall of the siren’s chest and, unable to hold back, reached forward. His hand touched soft, scaled skin, wet from the sea. He felt the firmness of the muscle beneath, and then touching him was like breathing - Steve had to run his hand down to the siren’s waist, needed to feel him, his hand moving down, to the side, running along scaled skin. He watched the siren’s face closely for a reaction and saw those same deeply hungry eyes. Steve slid his other hand around the other side of the siren’s waist and closed the last centimeters of space between them.

The siren watched him, not moving closer but not moving away either. Without breaking his gaze, Steve leaned down just enough to press his lips against the siren’s softly scaled nipple with a tentative kiss, always looking up - whether for approval or to burn an image of the siren’s face to his memory, he didn’t know. What he did not expect was the siren to react by letting out a little gasp and pressing up against Steve in a way that sent sparks down his spine.

Steve kissed again, loving the way the bud tensed, and he let his hands run along the siren’s back, feeling the long, lean lines of muscle. He wanted to be closer.

The siren grasped under Steve’s arms, lifting him easily, and Steve instinctively wrapped his legs around his waist. They stared for another long moment at each other as the wind whispered around, threading the siren’s dark hair against Steve’s blond, trying to understand each other, trying to understand what exactly was happening.

Then the siren moved, bringing his lips to Steve’s, and Steve, almost against his will, closed his eyes as he melted into the kiss.

It started so slow and gentle that Steve would have sworn he had never been in any danger, right up until he felt the sharp point of the dagger against his back.

Steve pulled away, pushing at the creature’s chest. He opened his eyes as his heart began a drumbeat, sure his feet wouldn’t support him and half thankful the siren was holding him or he would have collapsed on the slippery rock surface.

He wanted to curl into the welcoming expanse of chest in front of him, but he looked into the siren’s eyes, holding his gaze on those bright eyes and watching emotions flit across them - frustration, hunger, and yes, still - _hesitation_.

Steve placed his hand on the siren’s arm, gently as if to stay a wild horse, and the world stopped around them. Somehow Steve knew that this is what Natasha had done before grabbing the blade and finishing what needed to be done. Somehow he could hear her yelling at him to not be so stupid and yet that small voice faded as the siren began to lessen the pressure against Steve’s back.

The siren didn’t let go of the dagger, but he did lower Steve back to the ground and they stared at each other, stared until Steve couldn’t take it anymore and he whispered, “Let me touch you. I _need_ you.”

Letting out a slow breath, the siren leaned down, the two of them connecting in a kiss that started slow, but sped up at a dizzying pace, tongues tasting each other while hands began roaming with an urgency that pulled Steve as though he was physically connected to the creature in front of him. The dagger clattered to the rocky ground, unnoticed by both.

Steve loved the way the siren’s fingers traced patterns down his back with scaly fingerprints that set every centimeter of touched skin alight. He let his own hand follow the line of the siren’s arm, bringing his fingers along the small fin that started just at the forearm. He was gentle at first, some part of his mind nervous that he might tear or break the delicate webbing, but it felt firm under his touch, so he brushed his fingers along the ridge a little harder, and the siren arched beautifully into the motion.

The air whipped around them, with the moon pouring light down, but Steve was not cold. The golden aura around the siren warmed his body even as the seaspray splashed up against the dark rock they stood on. Steve had never _felt_ so much in his life - the slippery roughness of the rock beneath his bare feet, the warmth of the siren’s body pressed against his own, the musical way the siren’s breath caught every time Steve touched him in the right way -

The heat began to settle in Steve’s hips, and the siren noticed, pausing in his deliberate touch of Steve’s body. Steve whimpered at the sudden lack of sensation and the siren grinned, at once both terrible and exciting.

In a whirlwind of motion, the siren grabbed Steve and pulled him until they were both falling back into the water with a splash that knocked Steve’s breath out. He tensed in a fleeting second of panic before realizing the siren was supporting him as they floated together. Steve relaxed, running his hands along the siren’s arms, feeling the smooth muscle and delighting in teasing the fins on his forearm, loving the way the siren kept rocking back against him, the water rushing around them.

The siren held one hand behind Steve’s back and the other hand ran down Steve’s stomach, going lower and lower until Steve was holding his breath as the siren eased his single item of clothing off, exposing Steve’s cock, half hard again already.

“Don’t forget to breathe,” the siren whispered, his voice so low and sultry that Steve’s erection pulsed in anticipation and his breathing took a pattern more appropriately labeled a pant.

The siren’s hand found its target, strong fingers wrapping around the base of Steve’s cock and stroking so lightly and gently that Steve was already pushing his hips up in the water, trying to feel more friction. “Please,” he said, and before he realized what was happening, the siren ducked his head down, his perfect lips meeting the top of Steve’s cock, soft and smooth and wet.

Steve arched into beautiful sensations, floating and weightless as the siren began to move his mouth around his already aching cock, more intense than anything he’d ever experienced. Each wave buffeted against them and rocked him just a little deeper in the siren’s mouth and he couldn’t help but gasp and moan. “Oh my god, _oh_ -”

A wave washed over them and Steve ducked before instinctively reached for the siren, to see if he was ok, but that beautiful pressure never let up and he realized the siren’s small gills high on his cheeks let him breathe beneath the water.

And then the siren ran his tongue along the underside of Steve’s cock, moving up until his mouth was just at the very top, teasing the slit and then taking him back in all at once and Steve gasped. “It’s too much -,” he managed, panting as the siren teased him, again and again and again. “I’m going to come -”

The siren felt Steve tensing, and he slowed his pace into something soft and steady that left Steve feeling the fire in his body burn impossibly hotter and hotter until he was sure the water should start boiling around then. And then the siren sped up again, and with a low noise deep in his throat, Steve came, floating on the waves and weightless and wishing he could stay like this forever.

He appreciated the siren’s easy hold on him, supporting him while he recovered from the intensity of his orgasm. It was perfect. Perfect, right until the siren - always with that chilling, beautiful smile -  pulled him back under the dark, swirling water.

Steve had only a half breath of air left in his lungs and was already pressed against the siren without a chance of breaking free. His thoughts ran as fast as he wished he had ran away from the beach the first time, but that wish was still only half true. Even now, his brain starting to alarm a lack of oxygen, he still couldn’t bring himself to regret the last few days, couldn’t bring himself to fight against those strong arms. He didn’t care if it was from some sort of _mark_ or even just a lack of oxygen, the overwhelming peace and comfort he felt in the siren’s arms was his reality now. He reached, wrapping one arm around the siren’s waist and dared to slide one hand down the siren’s thigh, moving as close as he could to the siren until his vision was going black.

He couldn’t see the look on the siren’s face, the way those aquamarine eyes searched Steve’s face and form as desperately as though he were the one drowning. All Steve felt was the siren’s lips against his own once again, tasted the salt of the ocean and the soft sweetness of the siren as his thoughts faded to black.


	4. Chapter 4

**4**  

_The summer of his 16th birthday, Steve Rogers started to accept that puberty wasn’t going to be the “cure-all” growth spurt he had sometimes secretly hoped for. He was at the beach with a few friends and they had gone into the water for a swim. Steve had not. He wanted to finish a drawing he had been trying to work on for weeks._

_Something about the beach always calmed him, helped him focus on bringing the image from his mind to the paper. He sat on his blue towel under an umbrella, letting the waves and indiscernible conversations from the couple of other groups around him provide a soothing background ambiance._

_“Leave me alone -”_

_Steve couldn’t tell who said that, but the speaker clearly was not thrilled with someone else._

_“Hey, it’s just a kiss, c’mon now-”_

_The second voice confirmed Steve’s suspicions and he put his sketchbook down, standing up and scanning around for the owners of the in-progress arguement. He didn’t have to look far. He saw someone in a bikini backing away from someone else who was using his height to tower over her, trying to pass off lack of consent as a misunderstanding._

_“Hey,” Steve shouted, steeling himself in the sand and staring down the bully. “She said to leave her alone.”_

_He turned around, looking down at the kid in front of him. “Mind your own business, and go back to building sandcastles.”_

_Steve advanced a few steps, watching as the teenaged girl darted over to her group of friends, with a thankful glance at Steve. He nodded at her, before turning his attention to the upset teenager in front of him._

_“She and I were having an adult discussion,” the teenager said as he closed the distance between himself and Steve. “This isn’t for kids like you.”_

_Steve grimaced briefly, shifting his center of gravity lower and hoping like hell he could move faster than the other teen. “Kid nothing. I’m 16 and besides, anyone of any age coulda told you she’s not interested.”_

_“Great.” He raised a fist. “I won’t feel bad about this then -” He followed through with a punch that Steve couldn’t dodge and he found the sand rushing up to meet him._

_He groaned. His mom was going to sigh and fuss when she saw his face later. But he had to get back up, had to make sure the creep wasn’t trying to head back to his previous target. Steve pushed a hand in the sand, coming to his knees and preparing to move faster next time._

_“Yo, what’s this?” called out Gabe Jones and Steve grinned through his face full of sand, happy his friends had chosen now to return from their swim. “Unfair fight,” Gabe pronounced as he got close, coming up on Steve’s right side. “Steve is worth three of you, man.”_

_Jim Morita showed up on Steve’s left flank and the three of them stared down the bully until he shook his head, turned and scrambled towards the cars to leave._

_“We can’t leave you alone for five minutes,” Jim said, shaking his head. “Look at your face. Your mom is gonna kill us.”_

_Steve shrugged, patting the side of his face in an attempt to discern the size of the bruise forming. He tasted blood in his mouth. “Sorry to worry you guys. But I just don’t like bullies.”_

_He would have never noticed the figure so far out on the water, watching the drama play out on the shore with curious eyes, brown hair shining in the sun, and softly scaled skin glittering with the spray of the sea_

_The next year, the disappearances started and not long after that, the beach was closed._

 

Steve sprawled out in the sand, groaned, and looked up at the sky. The new day quietly announced its presence with little bits of sunshine peeking through an overcast morning.

Something was different. Cicadas were buzzing in the distance and the fish were jumping. Steve jumped to his feet, confused and uncertain. He scanned the shoreline, eyes zeroing in on the rock that he had stood on just hours ago with the siren, and he saw nothing.

Against any better judgement, he splashed into the water, calling out “hello” and “I’m right here!” as though the siren wasn’t trying to kill him -

_But he’s not. He’s not trying to kill me. He could have twice and he didn’t, twice._  

Steve swam out past the rock, searching and panting from the effort, but he saw nothing. He had to stop himself from going much farther out, reminding himself that he was an idiot for inviting trouble.

But it just didn’t feel _right_ anymore. The water was bright and cheerful and the bit of sun from behind clouds beat down on his back as he swam, stroke after stroke bringing him closer to the shore and farther from where he wanted to be.

When he stepped back on land he realized he was naked as the day he was born and that helped him feel some sense of urgency to make his way back to his car. Even then, he turned back and looked every few moments, his heart sinking when each time, he saw nothing different.

The fish jumped merrily. The cicadas droned. The sun stayed stubbornly half hidden behind a cloud. Steve opened the door to his jeep and, thankful he had left his clothes there, got dressed. He stared at the shore for ten more minutes from the driver’s seat before he could bring himself to turn on the car and put it in gear. If he had doubted his sanity last time, this time it was all the worse. His heart ached, sitting heavy in his chest, and he reminded himself to breathe.

~~

Steve dragged himself to class the next morning, like he was moving in slow motion, his body heavy with an invisible weight. He had slept fitfully, and his hair lay in disarray, and he hadn’t bothered to change his wrinkled, sandy clothes. Natasha’s eyes widened from where she was sitting next to Clint when she saw him, and she stood to go to him when Professor Fury came in to start class. She sat back down and the two didn’t get to talk until the end of the period, when they head down to a quiet part of campus.

Even then, she was uncertain when he described the way the meeting had gone, omitting some of the details that didn’t need to be shared.

“How do you feel?” she asked, scanning him head to toe as they sat on a bench in the cool chill of the midmorning, leaves occasionally blowing by on the breeze.

_Alone._ “Fine,” Steve replied. “It’s nothing like it was the other day. My throat feels fine, I’m not thirsty like I was.” _I wish I was._

“It’s only been a day,” Natasha reasoned, a thoughtful finger against her chin. “So, you could still feel something tomorrow.”

_I should be happy._ “I don’t know. Looking back, I had felt thirsty by the first day. It just didn’t click what was happening. And I don’t feel like that now.” It was hard to talk. He just wanted to go back home and sleep.

“Well, there is a school of thought in the old myths,” Natasha began, carefully meeting Steve’s eyes, “that suggests that sirens kill themselves when their intended prey escapes. So you could be safe. It could all be over.”

Her statement felt like a blade to the heart. Steve didn’t want to admit how much it hurt to think that he might never see the siren’s face again, might never hear his voice again, might never lay a hand on the soft, scaled arm. That he might never feel the peace he had known last night. And that he would be responsible for the beautiful creature’s death. He couldn’t hold back a few tears, but Natasha interpreted them as relief.

“Let’s be cautious over the next few days,” Natasha said with a small smile, “but I think you really might be safe, Steve. I was so nervous. I stayed up all night worrying about you.” She put out her arms in an offer of a hug. “I must’ve drove Clint nuts, texting him all night, trying to take my mind off of my fears for you.”

Steve nodded, leaning into the gesture and unable to bring himself to tell her about the ache in his heart. He knew she wouldn’t understand; he barely understood it himself. He closed his eyes and let out a shaky breath. He let Natasha hold him as she rubbed circles on his back and murmured what should have been comforting whispers that he was safe, that he was free.

~~

The semester passed in a blur of classes, painting, and daily trips to the beach. Steve got an A in ART325 and the gruff praise from Professor Fury in the form of a suggestion to apply for an art scholarship he sponsored each year. Steve did alright in his other classes, but couldn’t tell you what his final grade was in any of them, just that he passed and no one seemed overly concerned about him, so maybe his grief wasn’t showing, even though it felt like it was woven into every movement he made.

It didn’t get cold enough to snow in the winter, but the early January chill still warranted a warm coat. He spent his evenings at the beach, sometimes sketching or painting, sometimes just sitting, always waiting.

He applied for the scholarship at the urging of Clint and Natasha, who had started to date some time in February after cautiously flirting for three months. Though they continued to include Steve in many of their plans, he was more than happy to let them discover each other and leave him alone with his thoughts and beach trips.

By spring break at the end of March, he received an email announcing him as one of the two recipients of the “Nick Fury Scholarship for the Arts.” He read the email once, twice, thought about ignoring it, and then finally accepted it.

“Congratulations, man,” Clint said as the three of them sat outside of Natasha’s apartment, enjoying the spring weather on her patio.

Natasha sat on the other side of Clint in an old but comfortable enough plastic chair, her feet resting in his lap. “Glad I didn’t have to force you to accept it,” she said. “I was kind of getting a vibe that you didn’t want to go.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to go.” Steve pushed his hair out of his eyes, a few of the longer strands blowing in the breeze. “I just -” he trailed off, staring at the ground as though the cracks on the patio were the most interesting pattern in the world.

“You’ve been quiet,” Clint said after a silence. He was rubbing Natasha’s feet gently. “Quieter. I’ve never known you to waste words, but this feels different. Everything ok, Steve?”

Steve watched Clint and Natasha exchange glances, knew they had talked about him, worried about him. Clint took a sip of his beer and put it back on the little table. Natasha wiggled her toes in her socks against him.

“I’m fine. Just can’t seem to sleep well sometimes.” Steve said with a half-smile. It was only partially a lie. Nights were lonely - they had always technically been lonely in his studio apartment - but these days, the silence in the dark had begun to bounce around in his mind until he couldn’t fall asleep.

“Not too many weeks left this semester and then you’ll get to go to France for a month,” Natasha said after some consideration. “Like Clint said, congratulations.”

“Thanks, guys,” Steve said, managing half of a smile for his friends. He truly didn’t want them to worry. And in these easy moments where they were just hanging out, talking about whatever and occasionally discussing their plans for the future, it was almost enough to start to imagine his encounter with the siren as a one-time experience, as something that he could put in the past and move on from, like any failed relationship. “I’m gonna head out for the evening,” he added. “Let you two have a little time without your favorite third wheel.”

“Have a good night, Steve,” Natasha said, swinging her feet off Clint’s lap and getting up to give him a hug.

Clint waved and wished him a safe drive home. Steve’s apartment was only a few minutes away, but those three minutes were still long enough for the warm fuzziness of friends to fade, replaced by the constant yearning that fueled every painting Steve had done the past few months. The yearning was the reason Steve’s studio apartment was filled with no fewer than seventeen paintings of the siren, decorating the walls and the tables and every horizontal surface in the place.

Steve was exhausted. He climbed in bed and closed his eyes, hoping to pass out before his thoughts got a hold of him. He was tired enough that he might have succeeded had it not been a full moon. Without a cloud in the sky, the glow of the moon bathed his bathroom in pale yellow, reminding him of the light that had drawn him in so many months ago.

_He can’t be gone._ Steve lay in bed and stared at the light of the moon spilling into the bathroom. _Maybe I’m still marked. Maybe that’s why I feel this way, why I can’t let go. Maybe if I didn’t feel this way, then he’d be gone. But maybe as long as I feel this way -_

A loud crash somewhere outside his window was followed by a yowl as some stray cat dug through the trash, and Steve sighed. The sudden noise brought him another five steps away from sleep. He shifted under the sheet, deciding that he was too warm and pushing the covers down. The cool air rushed over his body like a wave and he closed his eyes as the powerful memory of the siren touching his cock flashed before him.

Steve lay there, letting the memory run through his mind, reminding him of the soft touches they had shared, of the way the siren had pressed against him. Steve could still see every inch of the siren in his mind, from the wind-whipped brown hair to the achingly perfect cock that he had never gotten to touch. And those legs -

With almost a whimper, Steve eased his boxers down from his waist, kicking them off his legs over the side of the bed. HIs own erection was standing at full attention, just from memories alone. He brought one hand down and stroked himself, so softly at first, a vague intention of making the moment last.

He couldn’t resist a firmer grip as his body responded to his own touch with vivid images of what it might have been like had he gone farther with the siren, the siren running a hand down his back until the came to rest at his bottom for just a moment before beginning to play gently with his entrance - Steve groaned at the image, his breathing rising in time to the way he imagined the siren easily slipping a finger in and the way he would move back and forth, preparing Steve for something bigger. 

Steve paused for a moment, fumbling to sit up and reach over to his single nightstand to grab a tiny bottle of lube out of the drawer. He lay back down on his side, one hand moving slowly and steadily up and down the shaft of his cock while his other fingers began acting out his fantasy.

“Ahhhh,” he breathed out as he explored himself tentatively with a first finger and then, quickly, a second, keeping his eyes closed as though that was enough to make his dream reality. It didn’t take long before the familiar sensation of his approaching orgasm began to build and he savored the moments as his fingers felt electric on his cock before it began pulsing in a strong, sensual rhythm, cum pooling on his stomach. He opened his eyes and the image of the siren disappeared.

The fantasy was nice, but the reality sucked, Steve decided as he cleaned up and managed to sneak in a few hours of sleep off of the relaxing calm of his physical release, before rising early again, restless and wondering exactly what he was doing with his life.

~~

“Professor Fury?” Steve poked his head in the office doorway and gave a little wave. “Do you have a moment?” It was a few days later, and Steve had made use of his newfound talent for being awake at all hours to get to campus early enough for the ungodly early office hours outlined in the class syllabus from last semester. He was glad to see they hadn’t changed.

The professor in question was sitting at his desk, reviewing a large packet. He put the papers to the side and motioned for Steve to sit down, nodding at him to speak when ready.

“It’s just that -” Steve started as he sat on the only other chair in the room, sturdy and uncomfortable. “Sir - if it’s not too much of a trouble, I’d like to talk about possibly -” he paused for a moment before finishing in a rush, “giving up the scholarship and letting someone else take my spot.”

Raising an eyebrow, Professor Fury regarded Steve for a moment before speaking. “If you don’t want to go, you don’t go.” He about wilted Steve with his next look. “Do I think it’s a mistaken decision? Not my place, but I would lean towards ‘yes.’ “

Steve nodded. A big part of him had been looking forward to the summer program and to the opportunities he would have. He kept nodding, because he didn’t know what else to say. A bigger part of him was too scared to leave for a month, lest the siren be waiting for him.

“Damn shame, Rogers,” the professor said. He didn’t ask why and he didn’t pry, but the way he fixated on Steve made him certain the professor could read his thoughts. “This decision will have to be final, you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Steve said. He almost laughed when he realized how _free_ he suddenly felt.

Another raised eyebrow, another shake of the head, and Professor Fury finished by saying, “Look, kid. I like your style. I think you could go far and it pains me to have to offer this scholarship to a lesser candidate. But here we are, so do try to move forward and make some good decisions.”

“I intend to try,” Steve replied. “Thank you. I really am - I was really looking forward to this, and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the offer and what it means. I just have some things here that I can’t leave right now.”

The professor nodded, they exchanged pleasantries, and Steve Rogers headed out of the office, off of campus and to his jeep, leaving the parking lot and signaling in the direction of the beach.


	5. Chapter 5

**5**

****  

The gravel under his car sounded and felt like a homecoming as Steve pulled once more into the grassy spot by the beach. It was his spot now - the daily trips had worn down the grass where he parked. He glanced at his art supplies in the back seat and hesitated before grabbing them. He passed by the handmade sign, now gently lying face down in the sand, and he followed his path through the grass to the shore.

Steve sighed as he instinctively scanned the shoreline. As always, he saw nothing except endless ocean, the waves forever rushing forward and then retreating back, ceaselessly wearing at the shore. Steve felt a little bit like the shore. He took a step forward, watching the horizon again. Scratch that, he felt a lot like the shore, except he couldn’t take the endless sleepless nights and the longing. The questioning of his sanity.

He didn’t walk far. It felt pointless to continue up the beach; certainly if the siren wasn’t _here_ , he wouldn’t be waiting some twenty feet farther. Steve set up his supplies and attacked the canvas, letting his emotions run raw in the form of brushstrokes and paint spatters. Somehow the form of the siren appeared in the work, messy and crude and nothing like the other paintings he had done before.

When he was “done,” he resisted the urge that had been building to fling the canvas into the water, to fling his supplies in the water, to fling himself in the water. Instead, he allowed himself a calming breath before tossing off his shirt and standing at the water’s edge, clad only in his swim trunks. He sighed. The heat of the sun beat down on his back, mid-afternoon approaching and those damn cicadas buzzed in the background, a taunting reminder that the siren was nowhere nearby.

Steve wouldn’t be able to say, if asked, what exactly got him walking into the waves again that afternoon. He didn’t feel a compulsion like he had before. He didn’t actively remember any thoughts in his mind. He just remembered looking at the water and feeling _peace_ and walking into that emotion. Peace, even though the waves were high for the spring. Peace, even though the sand under his toes felt gritty and rough and the water was too cold.

He kicked his feet out behind him, just swimming slowly, not really fighting against the waves and not really paying attention to the position of the beach behind him. There still weren’t really any thoughts in his mind, just that it would be nice to feel like this for a long time, that it would be nice to just forget how he had been feeling and to forget how he felt when he thought about the future.

Out of nowhere, he wondered what the siren’s name was.

Steve kicked against the water, a shockingly cold wave splashing against his face like an alarm clock as he realized how far out in the water he had drifted, and if he could have laughed, he would have - but he didn’t have quite enough breath to do swim and laugh.

_All of this and I don’t even know his name._

It was crazy, he realized. He was crazy. He needed to get back to shore, pack up his things, and go back to Professor Fury’s office. Maybe it wasn’t too late to say he was having second thoughts on his second thoughts. He felt calm and collected.

But the shore was taking a long time to come back into sharper view. Steve was a strong swimmer, had spent summers out at the beach, though he didn’t float as well as he wished he could. But maybe not strong enough.

A little twinge of panic zipped through his body, and he quashed it down as he focused on his stroke - easy, effortless, not expending too much energy. There’s no reason the shore should be so far away, Steve thought as he cursed whatever state of mind led him out this far. He focused on the water, wet and salty and the wrong temperature for spring. He focused on taking even breaths, on ignoring the screaming alarm in his head that he was too far out, that he wasn’t making any progress towards the shore.

Steve remained calm. He swam, as best as he could tell, parallel to the shore for awhile, just to clear a possible riptide. He stayed focused, one arm and then the other. The midafternoon sun was heading down to the horizon. It had been too long. His arms were tired.

He floated for a minute, resting. Every wave buffeted against him, another reminder, a constant notice that he was beyond the farthest reaches of his comfort zone. But what else could he do? He started to swim again, and the shore seemed to focus in front of him. He could do this.  

_I can do this all day._

But he couldn’t do this all day. Not that he was about to give up - no one could say that Steve Rogers went down without a fight - but his body was about to give up on him. He was panting, and every time he tried to float and rest, the tide carried him back out, destroying any progress he had made. He almost wished he was panicking because it would feel better than the eerie silence of being alone, even the fish staying away as if they knew his fate.

Steve couldn’t help but to close his eyes for one moment, the dulling alarm in his brain reminding him that was a bad decision. A wave broke over his head, he coughed and spit and found it nearly impossible to reorient himself above the water and -

A pair of strong hands grasped Steve around the waist and, completely involuntarily, he fought, kicking and pushing with what little strength he had left.

The arms pulled him closer and held him tighter, keeping Steve afloat with minimal effort. Steve’s tired arms gratefully relaxed as he realized his siren had come for him. Peace overcame him like a warm blanket and even though some part of his brain worried that he was hallucinating in his last moments of life, he rested in the siren’s arms, falling asleep in the middle of the salty water.

~~

Steve woke up some while later. He could see his art supplies next to him, his bag splayed out on the ground. He was lying in the sand, his head on the siren’s lap. The siren was smoothing Steve’s hair and looking down at him with unreadable eyes. His brown hair was wet and hung in tendrils to his shoulders, practically glowing in the setting sunlight. His skin shone ethereal and tinted with green. He was perfect.

“Am I dead?” Steve asked, blinking a few times as if to focus. “You’re here, so my guess is -”

The siren cut him off. “Why did you come back?” he asked, though not with malice. He seemed almost curious.

“Come back? Like, today?” Steve couldn’t help but laugh and he coughed on the salty taste in the back of his mouth, spitting out water. “If you think today is the first time I’ve been here looking for you -”

“It has been many moons since I removed my mark on you,” the siren replied, as though that was the obvious answer. He continued to run his fingers along Steve’s scalp. Steve enjoyed the touch, tilted his head towards it.

“I’ve been coming out here every day, looking for you.” he whispered, as if the truth would break the moment between them. The siren paused in his easy motion.

“But I removed my mark,” the siren repeated, his eyebrows raised and his mouth open in a thoughtful pause. “You should have forgotten about me.” He looked at Steve, his eyes searching. Steve drank in the gaze. “But you didn’t. And you came back?” His hand stroked lower, at Steve’s neck now.

“I couldn’t stay away if I tried,” Steve said, his shoulders tensing as he felt the siren’s hand at his throat. He was lying down with the siren over him; as always, Steve had no chance of making it out alive if that wasn’t the siren’s goal. But a part of him was starting to think that maybe he was safe. The siren’s soft fingers felt along his pulseline and Steve’s breath caught in his throat. He looked up at the siren, his eyes widening and his lips still parted from the gasp.

With almost a growl low in his throat, the siren muttered something about sorting this out later as he leaned down until his lips were pressing heavily against Steve’s.

_Yes. Later._ There wasn’t a chance of him letting go of this opportunity. Steve blissfully, immediately returned the kiss like a firework exploding across the sky and then slowly bleeding down. The space of months seemed to disappear as he reached up to take the siren’s face in his hands, threading his fingers through the siren’s silky wet hair and pulling him closer, lest he start to move away.

Desperate to move faster and yet wanting to make the moment last as long as possible, Steve broke away for just a moment to sit up, spin to face the siren, and straddle his lap, kissing the side of the siren’s neck up to his jawline until he was playing with the siren’s bottom lip, gently biting and bringing his hands back to the siren’s face.

The siren wasn’t sitting still either. His hands were on Steve’s back, one resting lightly on his shoulder and the other exploring down his back, lighting up every vertebrae in Steve’s back one by one with an almost overwhelming shiver. Steve moaned into the siren’s lips and that only excited the siren more, his hand going farther down Steve’s back until it was resting at the perfect curve of his ass.

Steve couldn’t help but to wiggle against the fingers, his hardening cock already aching, and when he moved back to slide off his swim shorts, it was just enough to let the siren’s own erection spring up between them, thick and shining with the same light green scales as the rest of his body. Steve arched forward against the siren, delighting in the sensation of every inch of his body lining up skin to skin with the siren. He moved his hips back and forth just a little, just enough to feel the friction against his own cock and how the siren pressed into the motion. God, but he was gorgeous like this, ethereal and scaled and writhing against Steve in an altogether _obscene_ way.

They kissed again, communicating in a way words couldn’t. The siren’s tongue slipped softly into Steve’s mouth and he sucked gently on it, as he moved a hand from the siren’s face down to the siren’s chest and then down farther, over smooth abdomen and, finally, _finally_ , touching the siren’s heavy cock. Sand scraped at Steve’s legs, but he ignored it as he ran his fingers down the hard length and nearly laughed as a thought popped up in the forefront of his mind -

“What’s so funny?” The siren shifted his hips to find friction against Steve’s fingers.

“Was just thinking,” Steve said quietly, half in a blush and half with a smirk on his lips, “How’m I supposed to call your name when I don’t know it -”

Out of all of the things the siren might have expected Steve to say, that wasn’t it. He made an odd sort of noise, rolling his eyes. “You’re human,” he said, as though that was the end of the discussion. “You’d never be able to pronounce it.”

Steve ran his fingers lightly over the smooth skin of the siren’s cock, loving the way it twitched in response. “My name is Steve,” he said. “Uh. If you didn’t already know that.”

The siren grinned. “I don’t usually learn the name of my food, _Steve_ ,”he said pointedly.

That gave Steve a moment of pause. “Am I -” he trailed off, the sound of the waves crashing at the shoreline a few feet away the only audible sound for a too long moment.

There was that look again! The siren’s glare was so intense, Steve didn’t know whether to shudder or moan in response or both. “ _We’ll sort it out later_ ,” he all but growled.

“Kind of a big deal now, to me. Potential food and all,” Steve managed to say as the siren wrapped one hand around Steve’s erection and pumped lightly, before bringing their lips together again in a heavy kiss. Steve groaned, pushing into the movement.

After a minute, the siren broke the kiss and then spoke again, in a language that was all hard consonants and musical flourishes and Steve listened, wishing that he could make sense of it. “And now you try,” the siren finished, arching an eyebrow and grinning, and Steve shook his head. The siren repeated three syllables that sounded like “ba-ch-ee” or maybe the middle was more of a hard “k” and Steve frowned, trying to process a new language while the siren simultaneously began moving his hand faster around Steve’s cock.

“The closest approximation in your limited vocal range would be ‘Bucky,’” the siren said, taking pity on Steve.

Steve laughed, a sound that caught in his throat when the siren - Bucky - brought his other hand to Steve’s bottom, gently tracing down the curve.

“You’re going to make fun of my name, _Steve_?” Bucky asked, baring his teeth and letting his finger linger at Steve’s entrance, probing ever so lightly. Steve all but whimpered, wanting Bucky to take things farther, faster.

“Oh, no,” Steve said. “Bucky,” he added, trying out the name. He couldn’t help but to laugh again. _Now_ he finally had a name. After months of pining and want and confusion. “Usually I try to learn a guy’s name before he’s finger deep in me,” Steve tried to explain.

“Normally I wouldn’t go down this path with a human,” Bucky whispered.

Steve shuddered as Bucky’s wandering fingers pressed just a little bit harder and Steve pushed back against them. He thought briefly about the lube he had tossed in his art bag, about the argument he had with himself about how ridiculous it would be to expect to use it and now - now he was glad. Bucky’s finger was soft and scaled and the tip slipped in and out of Steve’s entrance as he whined.

“I’ve got some lube in my bag,” Steve said, even as he tried to take more of Bucky’s finger in all at once.

“Humans,” Bucky replied, shaking his head, his eyes beaming with amusement over the dark haze of lust. “Go get it then, Steve.”

There was something about the way that the siren said his name that had Steve shuddering in pure _want_ as he all but ran the five steps to his bag and dug in the pocket to find what he was looking for.

“You take forever,” Bucky decided as Steve returned within fifteen seconds. He grabbed the little tube, spilled a copious amount over his cock and, flipping Steve around so that he was on all fours on the packed sand, nestled his cockhead against Steve’s entrance. “But I’ll still go slow if that’s what you need,” he whispered as he leaned over Steve, his chest rubbing against Steve’s back. He pressed kisses along Steve’s ear, tiny touches that set Steve’s nerve endings on fire.

Steve groaned. “At least to start, please,” he managed to say, shaking.

Bucky eased forward, moving slower than Steve would have thought him capable of. The overwhelming mix of slippery lube, rock hard cock, and scales that seemed to tickle with every movement had Steve undone before they even began.

“Oh my god,” Steve whimpered as Bucky continued at a glacial pace. “Oh my god, oh fuck,” he repeated over and over. The siren pressed forward so slowly that Steve felt every centimeter of beautiful stretch and fullness. “You are perfect, you are literally perfect, oh my fucking god!”

He tried to behave and be still, but couldn’t help wriggling back against Bucky, who growled at him to “stop moving!”

“Mmmm but I’m good, I’m ready, please,” Steve all but begged. “Been thinking about this for ages,” he groaned and the siren paused for just one more moment before starting to _move_ , pulling nearly out and then rushing right back in with a rhythmical thrust of his hips.

Steve knew, objectively, that the sand was rubbing against his hands and knees, but his nerves were already overloaded with pleasure and that was before Bucky reached one hand around Steve’s waist to stroke lightly at his painfully hard cock.

God but the way those fingers felt. It was nothing Steve had ever expected and he was positive he was ruining himself for literally any future sexual encounter.

“You feel delightful, _Steve_ ,” Bucky whispered, “Just so tight and so _warm_.”

The praise filled Steve with a giddy joy and brought him unbelievably close to the edge, heat curling up inside and threatening to spill over in moments. “Ahh, Bucky,” he cried out as the siren mercilessly fucked him. “Can’t help it - this feels too good -” and he came with a mangled cry, cum pooling in the sand underneath them.

The siren gripped Steve’s hips tightly, his pace speeding up and going erratic and then he came, too, with an unearthly, beautiful moan that had blood rushing back to Steve’s already spent cock and Steve groaned, the heat of the siren’s cum lingering inside even as the siren slowly drew back out.

Bucky sat back in the sand and Steve rearranged himself in the siren’s lap once more. The two of them sat in silence for a minute, just enjoying the sounds of each other breathing and the ceaseless waves lapping at their feet.

But after awhile, the silence started to feel ominous and Steve turned to look up at the siren, his gorgeous face lit by the rising moon. Steve shivered, this time from cold more than anything else. He wished he had brought a blanket. Remember the lube, forget the the blanket. _Good job, Steve,_ he chided himself.

“Where do we go from here?” Steve finally asked, in a rush, wishing he could take back the words as soon as they left his mouth. Knowing he wouldn’t like the answers Bucky would provide.

“ _We_ don’t go anywhere.” Bucky’s voice wasn’t even a whisper, just a breath of air that had Steve deflating as he snuggled closer, trying to maximize skin to skin contact as best he could, desperate to hold on to the siren for as long as he could.

“I could - I could buy land out here. Make a little house,” Steve said, talking as the ideas came to mind. “I would be a hermit painter. Sell my paintings, live in isolation - I mean, people would think I live in isolation but I would really be with you -”

Bucky brought a finger up to Steve’s lips, gently shushing him. “Steve. It’s not - practical.” He let out a breath. “This isn’t how it works.”

“But -” Steve protested, but he stopped, hanging his head, looking at the waves running in and rushing out. He felt numb. He didn’t want to go through the pain and the hurt of being away from Bucky again.

The siren shook his head and continued, knowing full well Steve didn’t want to hear it. “You know those missing people - it was me, Steve.”

He didn’t want to, but Steve shuddered. There was a new warmth on his face - tears had welled up at the corner of his eyes. “But not me,” he whispered.

“No, not you.” Bucky gently wiped a tear from Steve’s face. Steve watched the scaled finger shining in the moonlight and that only brought replacement tears.

“I don’t care,” Steve said, his voice rising until he was shouting. “If I don’t know about it, I don’t care!” He wanted to ball his fists, to hit something, to scream until everything worked out.

“God damn but that’s why -” The siren swallowed back his words, unspoken declarations unfit for the amount of time the two had actually spent together. “Steve,” he said, “if I could promise you I wouldn’t harm others - but I don’t think I could.”

“Bucky,” Steve said, “I can’t go. Not when I know you’re out there. I’m sorry. I know that’s stupid. But it’s like you fit me in a way I didn’t think was possible. I don’t know. I guess that’s your stupid mark or whatever talking or -”

Bucky growled, ” _I took my mark off you_ ,” and he stared at Steve like _he_ was the otherworldly creature. “You should have forgotten me.”

“Well I’m sorry I didn’t!” Steve shouted, frustration billowing out from his words. The ocean continued to mutter around them in rhythmic waves and Steve sighed. “But that’s not true. I don’t want to forget you. I _can’t_ forget you. That’s not how it works.”

“No, it’s not.” Bucky seemed to notice that Steve was shivering from the cold for the first time. “Do you have clothes to put on?” He raised an eyebrow, staring at Steve from top to beautiful bottom. “Not that I don’t like the look.”

Steve glanced around half-heartedly for his clothes, and pulled them on. He didn’t know how to feel. Tired, yes, check. Overwhelmed, definitely. It was like a weight sitting on each shoulder, pushing him down until all he could do was look at the siren. Warmer. The clothes were a good idea.

“I’m going to make a fire,” Bucky said after another minute. “I forget, sometimes, that you’re not going to always be as warm as your blood tastes-” he cut himself off, looking chagrined or maybe even just tired. He cursed in his musical language. At least, it sounded like a curse.

With a defeated shrug, Steve gave the siren half a smile. “No, it’s fine. It is what it is. Let me help.”

They collected some driftwood and Bucky set to work starting a spark and building a small fire. Steve sat and relaxed into the warmth around the fire like a drowning man grabbing for a buoy.

“I don’t care what you do when I’m not around you, Bucky.” Even as the words came out, Steve knew it wasn’t true.

Bucky sat next to Steve, putting a hand over his. “You do care, Steve. That’s part of what drew me to you.”

Steve threaded his fingers through Bucky’s hand and leaned his head against Bucky’s arm. “I do care,” he confirmed, closing his eyes for a moment. “But you make me so happy. Do you always have to kill - I mean, how _often -_ ” Steve cut himself off and shook his head. “No, I don’t want to know.”

The fire danced in front of them, warm and orange. Steve watched the way the light played off of Bucky’s skin, bringing out the golden tones of his green scales. “I don’t know how to explain it,” Bucky said. “When I’m by myself, the fish are enough. They’re cold, but they get the job done.” He held Steve’s hand tighter. “But when I’m around humans, it’s too much. You’re too _warm_. And I’m trying to resist, but it just gets harder the longer I’m around one. You included, Steve. I’ve never resisted for so long.

“And it’s - it is worth it, to feel like this, to be with you, but I can’t live like this, Steve.” Bucky stared at Steve as he stood up and backed away, eyes shining, his fist clenched in frustration. “I can’t feel like this forever, never able to let down my guard. I’ve had you in my arms more times than any other human I’ve touched, and every single time, it’s taken everything I have to fight my urges to take that dagger to your throat.” He shuddered as he said it. “And I don’t want that, but I _do_ want that.”

Steve couldn’t help the whimper that escaped. He was so tired and wished he could fall asleep and wake up in a world where this would work out. He reached out, and grabbed the siren’s hand, and pulled him back towards him. Bucky reluctantly sat back down, and Steve leaned against his chest. “When I’m with you, I feel so peaceful, that it wouldn’t matter. I’d die happy.”

Bucky all but growled at him. “You shouldn’t say that.”

Steve thought of Natasha, and of Clint, and of his family. His heart felt like it was in a vise. “No,” he agreed, wanting to cry. It was impossible to find a compromise.  “I shouldn’t.”

“I’ve been at this beach for a long time, Steve,” Bucky said as he pulled Steve closer and stroked his hair soothingly. “And while I would give near anything to see you again, I can’t change who I am and -”

“And I can’t compromise who I am either.” Steve understood, really he did, but why did it feel like a knife to the heart? “I still want you so badly.”

“I’ve never felt this way before,” Bucky agreed. His voice cracked and Steve looked up to see the siren staring at him, wistful and quiet and a single tear falling down his face. Steve raised a trembling hand, and cupped the siren’s face, brushing the tear away with his thumb, and leaning up and pressing a kiss to Bucky’s lips. It was a whisper of skin on skin, but it still took Steve’s breath away. He knew he would never forget this moment, the way Bucky’s eyes searched Steve’s face, the way they both sat there, hoping for some sort of divine intervention that would never come.  

The moon had risen high in the night sky, bathing the beach in a dim glow, and Steve was exhausted. He tried to keep his eyes opened, to make use of every moment, but then they would close again. Every time he opened them, the siren - Bucky - was there, sitting next to him, offering his goddamned gorgeous thighs as a pillow.

Steve knew, in the back of his mind, that he needed to leave, to go home, to rip off the bandage and start healing, but he didn’t feel strong enough to even entertain the idea for long. He snuggled against the siren and fell asleep, hoping against hope that Bucky would still be there when he woke up.

But when Steve woke up a few hours later, he was all alone on the sand, the moon setting over the horizon. He curled over on his side, and he cried.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although I am pretty sure the horror tag covers it, there is a brief instance of descriptive violence in this chapter!

**6**

_Steve was sitting up in the sand, wiping at his eyes, brushing his hair out of his eyes. He couldn’t bring himself to lift his eyes, didn’t want to see the empty stretch of beach, didn’t want to confirm that Bucky was no longer hiding among the waves. But when he heard the water splashing out of sync with the waves, he stopped and looked up, and rubbed at his eyes again, tapping on the side of his head, positive he was imagining things._

_Striding out of the ocean with his dark hair wet and dripping, the water running down his body in rivulets that traced every muscle, and the early morning sun glowing behind him, Bucky looked so regal that Steve’s wasn’t sure that he remembered to breathe for the next few moments. Dizzy, he held his hand out, reaching towards the siren, cold relief running down the back of his neck. He tried to shout the siren’s name, but his voice stuck in his throat, as if speaking would break the moment and send Bucky back to the watery depths he called his home._

_Bucky kept walking towards him, the waves crashing around him and then rushing away, as if they didn’t dare cross his path._

_“Steve.” The one, beautiful word rang out so loudly that Steve flinched, covering his ears out of instinct, and as the siren came closer, Steve could see his face was grim. Bucky frowned, the lines drawing his eyebrows sternly down. His eyes flashed._

_Steve was torn between reaching farther and turning and running. He had never seen Bucky like this before. There was none of the relaxing aura he had felt previously. Steve’s outstretched hand shook, his stomach started to turn. Even when Bucky had traced the dagger down his back in the water, Steve hadn’t felt this scared. He looked into Bucky’s eyes, and saw a horrible fire to them, anger and rage and none of the hesitation he had seen before._

_He tried to call out again, to just whisper Bucky’s name, if he could just whisper Bucky’s name, he knew it would break the spell, would snap him out of it. He tried so hard, but couldn’t breathe even one syllable, couldn’t even whimper._

_Bucky stalked across the sand, drawing his dagger and raising it as he crossed the distance between them in just a few steps. Steve moved back, but he couldn’t move faster than Bucky was moving. He couldn’t speak. He just kept holding his hand up between them._

_Less than three feet away from Steve, Bucky stopped. The siren looked at him, a terrible grin on his face. “Steve,” he repeated. His voice rang across the beach, and Steve ducked his head, bile rising in his throat._

_“This is who I am,” Bucky whispered fiercely, and he raised his other arm, the one not holding the dagger._

_Steve looked, forced himself to look, and saw a ropey length of seaweed, entwined around and through dozens of skulls. They went on and on as far as Steve could look and when he turned back towards Bucky, the siren was inches away, raising his arm, and bringing down the dagger with all the force his strong arms and shoulders were capable of and Steve felt it, felt the burning, stinging, ripping fire of his flesh being split in two and then, as he felt his warm blood start to rush down his chest, then he was able to scream._

Steve woke up, panting and shaking. He couldn’t sit up, couldn’t breathe. He grabbed his chest, and held himself tightly, until his hands started to clench from tensing so long. Only after a few more minutes, as his mind accepted that his body was not in danger, was he able to let go of himself and, terrified of what he might see, he dragged his field of vision across the sand, until he was looking at the water. He breathed out. No one was there.

Steve wiped at his eyes with sandy hands, but before he could begin to process the hurt, the sorrow, and yes, the anger, racing in his mind, he noticed something was written in the sand. He shot up like a rocket, but careful to avoid smudging the message with his feet.

_Steve -_

_I’m sorry for leaving but I don’t trust myself to stay any longer._

_You have always enchanted me, from the first time I saw you._

_Promise me you won’t be foolish._

_“Your Bucky.”_

In an instant, the angry image of Bucky from his nightmare dissolved as Steve stared at the sand. Something glittered on the ground nearby and he squatted down to see Bucky’s dagger, blade half-buried in the sand. The dagger lay there, as a gift or an apology, Steve wasn’t sure. A second wave of tears threatened his already shaky composure. He drew a deep breath as he looked at the words again, carved deep in the sand and cast into relief by the early rays of sunshine. He looked over the water. Still nothing, nobody.

He grabbed the dagger, holding it as though it might disintegrate.

The cicadas had started to come out in full force again and his listened as they droned, and he smelled the spring flowers blooming behind the beach dunes. He felt the sun warming his face, across his cheeks and his nose, the start of an unseasonably hot day. The fear from his nightmare that had encircled his limbs and chest dissipated as Steve remembered last night, remembered the way that Bucky had looked at him, the way that tear had ran down his face.

“What if I want to see you again?” Steve muttered to the air, gazing from the writing in the sand to his painting from yesterday.

The wind did not reply, and Steve stretched, hands to the sky and sea salt air filling his lungs. He blinked, realizing that he felt that same sense of peace he had felt in the siren’s arms. His heart still felt like a cracked stone - he still _wanted_ to be able to reach out and run his hands along Bucky’s back, feel the smooth scales and  trace the fins along his arms and legs, but there was some small part of his mind that understood, and he clung to that.

Steve stared at the sand again. He didn’t want to leave, but he knew he couldn’t stay. He grabbed a nearby stick to scratch his own short message in the sand, as far above the tide line as he could, wondering if the siren would see it as he gathered up his supplies.

At a closer glance, he saw his painting had one little difference. Bucky must have done it, added what Steve had come to think of as his “signature shimmer,” that golden green glimmer around the siren’s skin, bringing his painting as close to reality as possible.

Steve couldn’t help the smile that crept up on him despite his hurting heart, despite the longing ache that threatened to settle over him like a fog. So much for his fairy tale ending, for his happily ever after with the most amazing creature he had ever known. It _was_ better this way, even if he wasn’t sure he could convince himself of that in the middle of the night on the next full moon. But he could try. Steve knew Bucky wanted him to try.

He swung his art supplies over his shoulder, checking the painting to make sure it was dry before picking it up and carrying it as though it was priceless back towards the path in the tall grass. He looked back one last time, watching the waves crash on the shore for several long minutes, the fish jumping merrily in the sea, and he managed one more smile, thinking of the words he had added to the sand.

_With every wave that crashes, I will think of you._

He had left a paintbrush in the sand, put it in the place of the dagger, which was now safely secured at his side, wrapped in a scrap of fabric he had in the bottom of his backpack. Every few moments he would reach down to feel it, as if to convince himself that he still wasn’t dreaming.

A few tears blurred his vision as he shifted his jeep into gear, but he blinked them back, letting the radio fill the silence with mindless music as he drove away from the part of himself he had left with the siren.

~~

Steve headed to campus. He was just in time to catch Natasha at the end of her morning class.

“Steve!” Natasha said, grabbing his arm and shaking her head. “We were worried about you yesterday when you didn’t show up for class all day. And you didn’t answer your phone.”

“Sorry, Nat,” Steve said, looking at his feet and then bringing himself to look at her face. She was glowering, waiting for an explanation. “I was having a rough day.” He paused, the memories of the night playing through his mind, his composure threatening to crack. He forced himself to smile at her. “I’m doing a lot better now.” It wasn’t a lie. It just didn’t feel completely true either.

With a sigh of relief, Natasha held out her arms and Steve accepted the warm hug, thankful for the way she didn’t pry, just accepted where he was at. “At least give us a text next time. Clint was about to organize a search party if you didn’t show up this morning.”

“I can do that,” Steve promised as they walked down the hallway. “Look, can we go somewhere and talk for a few minutes?”

Natasha nodded even as she sized up his expression and arched an eyebrow. They headed out of the building and down one of the campus paths, lined with late-spring blooming flowers and scratchy bushes. Steve recognized the bench they sat down on - it was the one they had sat on half a year ago. The trees above them budded with new leaves for the summer.

“You know you’re the only person I can show this to.” Steve fumbled in his backpack, bringing the dagger closer to the top of the pack. He didn’t want to flash an actual weapon around campus, so he kept it well covered with the cloth.

“And you know you’re the only person who can say that to me without me grabbing some pepper spray,” she joked, before Steve moved the cloth aside just enough for her to see the long silver blade and the jeweled handle of the dagger. “Fuck. _Steve._ ” There was no mirth left in her words.

If she was angry or disappointed, it didn’t show. But she was silent for a good minute and Steve couldn’t help but let some of the details tumble out, knowing he was bringing up unpleasant memories for both of them, but desperate for someone who could understand, to some degree, his thoughts. “I couldn’t stay away. I had to know if he was still out there. He was, Nat. And we talked for hours. And when I woke up, he left _this_.”

“So much for the theory that they commit suicide if their prey escapes,” Natasha muttered. Her face was almost expressionless, just a shade paler than usual and she almost reached out to touch the handle of the dagger before stopping her hand and sitting back, pressed up against the end of the bench.

Steve took a deep breath, forcing back the tears that sprang up without warning in the sides of his eyes. “Actually, that’s why I’m so… worried. Thinking that maybe it meant he was acknowledging this time that I got away.”

“So you’re _worried_ a deadly siren - who has told you he killed people - might take its own life?” Natasha clarified before allowing a glare that immediately softened. “You’re something else, Steve Rogers.”

“He told me he hasn’t killed since the beach closed down, that as long as we stay away from him, he’s got no desire to - uh. You know. He’s not actively - hunting. And, I just feel like, he deserves to live his life.” Steve struggled to put his thoughts into words and knew that was as good as it would get. “I don’t ever want to be the reason someone died, Nat.”

“Oh, Steve,” Natasha said. She laughed, the sound a little hollow. “I’m sorry you couldn’t get together with a creature that wanted to kill you, even if he didn’t do it right away.” Her words stung, a little, but almost helped Steve put the events of the past day into place. Almost.

“It is what it is,” Steve muttered, closing his eyes. “So I’m moving forward. That’s what you said, right? Always moving forward.” The image of the siren came without effort, the way he had looked at Steve, that goddamn solitary tear on his cheek. He sighed, and Natasha patted his hand.

“There you are, you punk!” Steve opened his eyes to see Clint stalking towards the two of them.

“Hey, Clint, I’m sorry.” He held his hands up in mock surrender. “For not calling and for monopolizing your time with Nat between classes.” Steve could practically hear Natasha’s eye roll behind him.

“I’m just glad you didn’t do something stupid,” Clint stepped forward and wrapping Steve in a big bear hug. “Would have missed seeing your face around here.”

“I can take care of myself just fine!” Steve protested, but the truth was, the hug reminded him of Bucky and he wasn’t fine.

“Steve,” Natasha said, looking at Clint for approval as she spoke. “Stay with us, ok? Your lease is up next month, right? So at least stay with us this summer.”

Clint nodded. “We’ve got a guest room. Well, technically, Natasha has a guest room, but I think I’m allowed to offer it to you.” His phone dinged with a text from someone and when he checked it, he saw the time. “We gotta hustle for class, you guys.”

“Ok,” Steve said, shoving the dagger back down deep in his backpack. “I’ll think about it.”

They walked down the sidewalk and across another path, heading to the art building for their one class together this semester.

When they entered the building, Steve saw Professor Fury up ahead. “Hey, one second, ok?” he said as he hurried towards the teacher, to get his attention before he went into his classroom across the hall.

The professor must have seen the look in Steve’s eye, because before Steve could say anything, he spoke first. “Steve, you know what you said yesterday left me with no choice but to offer the scholarship to the next candidate.”

Steve’s shoulder slumped for a moment under the realization of the decision he had made yesterday, but he straightened back up and nodded, opening his mouth to say something, anything. Professor Fury continued to speak.

“They’ve accepted, of course,” he said. “But.” He fixed Steve with a look somewhere between a promise and a glare. “If you’re willing to work with me, I think we could arrange for a work-study abroad this summer.”

Steve nodded, slowly at first and then a little quicker. “Yes,” he said. “That would be perfect.”

At the back of his mind, he couldn’t help but wonder if Bucky took vacations. To France. Maybe he’d go to the beach once or twice while he was there. Maybe the dagger was a promise that Bucky was going to live his life too, just like he had asked Steve to. He nodded as the professor admonished him to show up at his office later that day to begin planning and that this time, he would not take no for an answer.

As he confirmed the time with Professor Fury, Natasha came up behind him, Clint at her side. The three of them went into the classroom, talking and laughing, and Steve smiled, a real smile, as he pulled out his notebook and settled into his desk. He just wished his heart didn’t feel so weighed down, like waves were crashing on his chest and trying to pull him under.

No, it wasn’t perfect, but he still felt peace radiating around him, felt the weight of the Bucky’s dagger in his backpack, and he knew he was were he needed to be right now.

 

 

**Epilogue**

The gallery was awash in soft lighting, just a hint of blue streaming down, the perfect complement to the artist’s collection. People filtered through, stopping to admire each painting. They were all beautiful, a series of oceanscapes and a study in sirens, each creature vibrant in its own right.

There was one painting that everyone crowded around, unable to walk past. Whereas all the other paintings featured the ocean and the sirens at a distance, almost as though they were untouchable, this siren was painted as a portrait, so close that you could see every line of his face. He was looking forward, his eyes a green glow, soft and gentle, his brown hair blowing in the wind, a single tear shining down the side of his face as his eyes searched for something he could never have.

The light streamed to his face from the side, highlighting his otherworldly glow, and the corner of the painting blurred as though the siren was a reflection in the water, there but not at the same time. And in the corner, the artist’s signature, SR.

Steve Rogers stood at the far end of the gallery, watching the people admire his work. He wore a tailored suit and the weight of the past decade on his shoulders, in the way he stared longingly at the painting when he thought no one was looking.

“A toast!” Clint appeared at his side with a small flute of champagne. “To the most successful of the three of us.”

Steve shook his head as Natasha, radiant in a red dress, came forward with two glasses, giving one to him.

“You guys are doing fine yourselves.” Steve looked at the crowd around his paintings again. He watched a man in a light gray pinstriped suit and paisley tie speak with the gallery owner. The man gestured towards the paintings and nodded several times. “I’m just lucky that people seem to relate to the only thing I’m capable of painting.”

“I mean, I seem to recall that you did paint other things at one point in your life,” Clint teased. “Before you got your taste for the ocean.”

Natasha was silent a little longer. Steve knew that the paintings held a different meaning for her, too, one that Clint might never quite understand. He wasn’t sure how much she had told Clint, and he would never pry.

“Thanks for being here, Nat.” Steve raised his glass to her, acknowledging the conversations they had had regarding his paintings, the late night discussions of “do you think he’s still out there?” and “do you think he remembers me?” and she nodded, raising her glass in return.

“I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.”

The gallery owner came up to the trio, beaming as she motioned for Steve to step aside a moment. “You’ll be thrilled to know that we’ve had a wonderful offer on one of your paintings.”

“Which one?” Steve asked, glancing at the crowd. The man in the suit had disappeared among the others.

“The portrait, of course,” she said, smiling. “ _Sorrow of the Siren_. He’s willing to pay-”

Steve cut her off before she could talk numbers. “That one isn’t for sale. We discussed that.”

Her smile faltered for a moment. “Yes. I just thought the amount might be worth a second thought.”

He smiled warmly at her. “I understand. But there’s not a number in the world that would change my mind. Of course, if he’s interested in any of the others, please let me know.”

She nodded, and headed back towards the exhibit. Steve looked up towards the ceiling, staring at the gray square tiles, the lattice of mounting and lights and then he looked back at his friends. Clint was rolling his eyes in mock exasperation and Natasha raised an eyebrow. Steve just shook his head at them.

~~

Time continued to pass, each day the tide coming in, going out.

Steve eventually fell in love again and married, a nice woman who didn’t seem to mind his need to have a night to himself on the full moon, whose dark brown curls and smart sass captivated him and - _almost_ \- had him telling her the story behind his most treasured possession, the dagger that had belonged to his first love.

They had a child together, grew old together, and enjoyed life together. And when, at 87, Steve died peacefully in his sleep, she had his funeral service at the seaside, a place she knew meant the world to her husband. Natasha and Clint attended, quiet and reverent, listening to the rhythmic crash of the waves as Peggy Rogers spoke about her husband’s accomplishments and the dreams he had fulfilled during his life, of the legacy he would leave behind.

None of them noticed the small worn and weatherstripped paintbrush that floated in on the waves, settling on the sand, an unspoken tribute from an uninvited guest who stayed far out of sight, floating behind the rocks, his unaged face wet from tears or, perhaps, an errant wave.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are not enough thank yous to cover how fun this project has been. I am truly grateful to Hope for being so amazing and inspiring, for really pushing me to create one of my favorite fics I have ever written. 
> 
> Visit [ hopeless--geek](http://hopeless--geek.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!
> 
> I'm also on [ tumblr. ](http://mystrana.tumblr.com/)
> 
> And don't forget to check out the Cap RBB collection [ here ](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/CAP_RBB_2017) and follow them on [ tumblr.](https://capreversebb.tumblr.com/)
> 
> ~~~
> 
> IF you really liked this story but would also like to stop crying at some point in the next few hours, Hope and I have also collaborated on a slow burn Stucky ballet!au that you can jaunt over to [ here! ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11005938/chapters/24518940) It has a happy ending. :)


End file.
